


Footnotes

by Trista_zevkia



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-28 10:44:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/991116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trista_zevkia/pseuds/Trista_zevkia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has some footnotes in his mind palace library. They don't prepare him for this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Footnotes

Sherlock took the proffered champagne and managed not to snarl at the uninteresting (single, two children, likely twins) server who handed it to him. It wasn’t her fault that he was stuck here, on a boring case that wasn’t even a case yet. No, it was John’s fault and Sherlock’s own insistence that the stubborn man stay alive. Completely John’s fault, and he wasn’t even here. Stupid excuse about having to work, like he didn’t know that Sherlock had only taken this case so he could earn back Lestrade’s good graces and get back to The Work.

Lestrade knew full well that Sherlock’s fall had also save his life, but he was still making Sherlock work for the interesting cases. Two dead bodies, same M.O., same time of death, just on separate sides of town, and Lestrade had sent Sherlock _here_. Some famous photographer was having a retrospective of his life’s work and Sherlock was working security. At least he wasn’t supposed to take out the troublemakers, Gregson was the bouncer tonight. Sherlock was only supposed to look for people who were likely to steal the most expensive pieces and determine if the fatwa issued was genuine. 

Sherlock had been slowly working his way back to the room with the exhibit of photos from Afghanistan, idly noticing that most of the posh crowd was avoiding that room. They were either disturbed by the images or had heard the rumors about the fatwa. As a marketing gimmick, a fatwa might be a bit much, but he’d have to ask John about that. Sherlock scowled further and skipped the last landscape picture to go into the war photos exhibit. If John wasn’t going to be here with him, maybe the images would give him something to impress John with later. 

Though, John might tease him back, seeing how Sherlock could easily navigate the gruesome pictures of dead bodies, splattered on the walls around him. These were the pictures that had chased out the posh crowd, giving Sherlock a moment of peace and quiet to think and notice. To see a picture that called out to him before he noticed why. 

A field medic was operating on a soldier, practically laying on the patient as their shared stretcher was being carried somewhere with a desert background. Somebody had put a surgical mask on the medic after he started, as it was the only thing not covered in sand and blood. There were signs of fatigue in the slump to his shoulders and the lines around his eyes, but his eyes were so alive they looked blue even in the black and white picture. Sherlock knew that look and the exact shades of those eyes. In the uniform, helmet, and surgical mask, it could have been anybody, if the observer wasn’t Sherlock. 

It was John before Sherlock knew him, alive, vibrant, and whole. 

Sherlock knew three ways he could get the photo out of here so that no one else could see his John this way. Except the rational part of his mind told him the digital picture was saved somewhere else, and he’d be better off hacking the photographer’s computer before it was revealed that someone was after that picture. Jerking around so that he didn’t give away his interest put Sherlock facing the centerpiece of the collection. 

John, in color, blown up to almost life-size, laughing. Sherlock had to take a moment and look, absorbing the image before he could break it down, make it into something he could store in his mind palace. He kept getting stuck on the word beautiful, so he forced himself to look away from John. Technically, there were three other people in the picture. Sunlight played on their features as they sat in a semicircle on desert camouflaged crates. One, toward the back, had a small tray in front of him, on which he was cleaning his handgun. Two others played cards on the crate between them. John appeared to be trimming his toenails. 

He had his boot off, sock tucked into it, and that leg crossed his knee. His left hand hid most of the metal clippers in his hand, and his side was to the camera. He’d looked up to laugh at something the card players had said or done. Where the sunlight had played on the others, it had haloed John’s profile as if the sun knew just how special he was. His hair, already lighter in the sun than it was now, was translucent and golden. 

Forcing his eyes away, Sherlock did a quick tour of the rest of the pictures. When he was back in front of golden John, he pulled out his phone. Ignoring the two missed texts, he sent one to John. 

_Do you know Aloysius Akins? SH_

_I can proudly say I’ve never met anyone by that name._

_I have proof to the contrary. SH_

_So why’d you ask?_

_To see if you would lie before I ask the important question. SH_

_Not lying, really don’t know anybody by that name._

_So I take it you didn’t know he was in love with you? SH_

There was a long wait for a response, so Sherlock looked at the title of the work. _G.I. John Relaxes._

Sherlock thought it might be wordplay, so he went for the ‘G’ file in his mind palace’s expansive library. G.I. Joe, a term arising from World War I, when the G.I. abbreviation was in reference to galvanized iron, but people who didn’t know that thought it was government issue.* 

An asterisk, a footnote that Sherlock didn’t have to read to know what it would say. His mind palace library was cross referenced with hyperlinks, but the old fashioned footnotes all said variations on ‘ask John.’ This one, a shift in thought showed, said ‘for popular cultural references, ask John.’ Even in Sherlock’s mind palace’s library, John had made his presence known. Containing John to his own private wing had been a valiant effort, but ultimately fruitless. 

Sherlock would have to hack into Aloysius Akins computer and destroy all his photos, because he doubtless had hundreds of photos of John. And, doubtless, John in more personal moments than clipping his toenails or saving a life. John, first thing in the morning, even his short hair tousled from being pressed against the pillow. John, the way his whole face seemed to smile when he got that first cup of tea. What if Akins had pictures of John in bed, before he rose? Or, in bed, awake and active, touching, asking why the camera was in bed with them, or, god, posing for the camera. 

“Sherlock, whatever you’re planning you stop it right now.” 

John’s stern, commanding voice, so well-remembered it took Sherlock a moment to realize it was real and not from somewhere in the mind palace. To his left, John was standing there, looking out of place in his work clothes; he should have been in his fatigues. He was frowning, concerned, able to notice Sherlock was plotting to destroy a man’s life work even though he didn’t know why Sherlock would do such a thing. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“I told you I’d come help after I got off work. I even texted you twice that I was on my way, and the closest thing to a response I got was some strange accusation.” 

“Thirty photographs in this section, limited by the small space provided for his war pictures. Two of them feature you. What other conclusion am I supposed to draw from these facts?” 

John’s frown changed, from a frown of disappointment to one of confusion, and Sherlock was distracted by wondering how he’d done that. John looked at the picture in front of Sherlock, and his eyes smiled while his mouth now frowned in sorrow. 

“I don’t remember this being taken. Clark and Sam were hysterical together, but never better than when they bounced off the straight man back there, Big Al. Sam and Al were killed on the same mission, and Clark never laughed after that. He was invalidated back to the U.S. a year before I was shot.” 

“How can you not remember being photographed? He might have been a scout for the enemy, and you weren’t even aware of it?” Sherlock stopped himself before he asked the real question, namely how John could look at a picture and see everyone in it except him. 

“People were always taking pictures; we even had a reporter embedded with us for about six months. Lou was great at taking candid shots, though I never saw any of his printed out.” 

A hand on his shoulder spun John around with a minimal of complaining. A pointing finger showed him the blue eyed man in the black and white photo. John squinted as he tried to recognize the person in the photo. 

“That might be me; we all had to do that a few times. It helped keep the sand out of the open wounds if it was windy that day. In the desert, a breeze doesn’t necessarily cool things off, as the breeze is as hot as the air.” 

“The breeze? Idiot. John, I am the world’s greatest detective; believe me when I say that is you. If all the medics did that, and not just the portable ones,” Sherlock ignored John’s inarticulate protest, “what are the odds that your photo would be the one this man chose for his retrospective?” 

“Since it’s opening night of his retrospective, he’s probably here. That is to say, why don’t you go ask him, Sherlock?” John had turned from the photo to glare at Sherlock as he imparted this bit of information. 

“Oh!” Sherlock said, which made John grin. John did love when Sherlock solved a case. “Aloysius, John. If I was going to try and blend in with a bunch of soldiers, I wouldn’t tell them my name was Aloysius Akins. Al would be too obvious, but Lou, from the second syllable, low, that would be subtle. So, John, your sneaky photographer friend, Lou, had a crush on you. He’s here with his partner, so gay, and he’s having troubles in paradise, probably caused by his ‘eye for beauty.’ As such, I am not inclined to reintroduce the two of you until you’re spoken for.” 

“So I should pull somebody between here and the drinks table?” 

“I’d offer you my drink, but I seem to have misplaced it.” 

“I did wonder at the broken glass we’re standing on.” 

“You are correct that we will have to leave eventually.” Sherlock pondered on this a moment, not thinking about the amused way John was taking this situation. Shouldn’t he have been angry at this attack on his heterosexuality? “I have it. We only need to make you look taken; it doesn’t matter if you aren’t.” 

John looked as if he was about to laugh, but swallowed it down in the face of Sherlock’s seriousness. He, apparently, didn’t see a problem with going out to talk to his old friend. 

Sherlock leaned in to undo John’s tie and the top two buttons under it. Three would be too much, making him look ‘snogged’ and not ‘greeted warmly.’ A quick ruffle of his (really soft and yet spikey, was it always this way?) hair, and it looked nicely mussed. John started to giggle, getting what Sherlock was up to, a hand coming up to cover his lips. After a passionate hello from a lover, those lips would be swollen, and Sherlock only knew of three ways to get that look. The easiest was a kiss, so Sherlock moved John’s hand and leaned down. 

John’s eyes got very big as he realized what Sherlock was up to, but he didn’t pull away or force Sherlock to stop. He froze, waiting for Sherlock to finish touching up his disguise. 

Sherlock, meanwhile, found he’d forgotten why he was kissing John; all thought was lost in the sensations too complex to categorize for the mind palace. His hands had not been invited to this disguise party, but they knew their role in the unexpected kissing activity. A long arm wrapped around broad shoulders, another around a muscular arse that was unexpectedly wonderful to hold. Sherlock’s legs wanted to get in on the action, but being unsure of how to proceed, it took John to show them. 

He took half a step back, as if to put distance between them, and Sherlock’s legs walked them to the wall. Here, with John securely against the wall, under a picture of younger John, Sherlock didn’t need both legs to support himself. The lucky right leg slid up the outside of John’s left leg, before wrapping around. Sherlock could feel a minute shrug from John, as if he was deciding to go with Sherlock’s madness yet again, and then John began to kiss him back. 

Sensation overwhelmed Sherlock for a rather long while, something he was only aware of when his dormant survival instincts had him pulling back so he could breathe. He was almost hyperventilating, but John was only breathing heavy, as if he knew some method of breathing while kissing. Sherlock would have made a mental note to ask about that, but John licked his swollen lips, derailing Sherlock’s thoughts yet again. 

“Bit much for a disguise, yeah?” John asked, his face showing the question was about more than disguise technique. 

“It would seem that I don’t want you to pull anybody between here and the drinks cart. Or ever again, if at all possible.” 

“It would seem?” 

“Don’t be an idiot; you know very well I don’t do these emotions.” 

“Don’t do them or don’t admit to the emotions being there?” 

“John,” Sherlock started, embarrassed that he didn’t know how to finish that sentence. He couldn’t stand sharing John, being apart from John, or never kissing John that way again. Oh. The rush of a case solved filled him, which always made his face do that thing John liked. 

John smiled while still looking shocked, and then was pulling Sherlock to him. 

By the time they broke apart, both John and Sherlock had gone from ‘ravaged’ to ‘possessively fucked in a handy cupboard’, according to Sherlock’s disguise scale. It helped that Sherlock could pick locks on cupboards with one hand and without looking. 

Later, telling John what he’d figured out before he’d made that face would get him dragged into inaugurating their bed. It wasn’t that he’d figured John out, far from it. Sherlock had figured himself out, discovered that he wasn’t a sociopath, decided what love was to him, and deduced that he was in love with John. When he did reintroduce John to Lou, Sherlock had John’s possessive hand on his hip. It was better than anything he’d thought up, and he made a new footnote to let John take the lead in this relationship stuff. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל


End file.
